The Mammaries of the Welfare State (42 page)

With a kind of relaxed, collective sigh, the auditorium settled down to switch off and listen to him. It was both impossible and explosive to attempt to throttle the representatives of the people. They yelled like dementedly- harassed parents at their children if you tried. They scared even the officialdom of the Welfare State—its toughest birds
too—the cops, the Income Tax people, Customs. Over the years, Bhootnath Gaitonde in particular had developed a reputation for being one of the fiercest Parliamentarians, a trailblazer, a pathfinder for the protection of their human rights. It was he, for example, who’d institutionalized the practice, sporadically isolated before him, of screaming at any policeman at any airport who, before any domestic flight, dared to frisk his person or his baggage. The argument at the core of his shrieks and threats, naturally, was the grave insult to, the questioning of, the integrity of the people as represented by his khadi-covered belly and his bags.

He was neither a member of the Centenary Committee nor a Special Invitee. Being an elected representative of the people, he was an Official Gatecrasher. They couldn’t be stopped. All hell would break loose if they were. Ditto if they weren’t. ‘On the subject of the proposed wastage by this body of a second precious resource, namely, money, I made clear my views in Parliament a couple of months ago and I won’t repeat myself here. Continually keeping in mind the importance of time, I’ll therefore restrict myself only to Item Number Two on our agenda, which—I’m ashamed to add—we haven’t yet reached even after two-and-a-half hours of debate. The item concerns the installation, at a cost of twenty-four crores, of a Russian statue of Gajapati Aflatoon in the Bay of Bhayankar. Some of you might know that I’ve my roots there, in Bhayankar. I was born there—and even after I left it to pursue my calling, I’ve always reserved a special place in my heart for the world’s largest slum. It—my heart—has followed with particular interest, over the years, the growth and development, the ups and downs, of my birthplace. It bled, it stopped beating, in 1980 during the communal and caste riots of March there. Do I need to remind my audience of the carnage of Bhayankar? Evidently, yes. Four thousand dead, a few hundred drowned, thousands of children orphaned, thousands more dislocated, crores of rupees of goods and
property destroyed—and more than a decade after our very own holocaust, the rate of progress of our rehabilitation programme is almost as horrifying as the original event.

‘Do I exaggerate? Is this the right forum where one should raise such issues? Should cultural events be held completely independent of the realities of the time? Must the show go on like a house on fire principally to mirror the conflagration in the audience? I leave your consciences to decide these questions after I read out to you from one of the First Information Reports reluctantly recorded at Bhayankar Naka Police station during those two weeks of 1980, Reluctantly, of course, because the police, as always, were deep in the midst of the riots, churning up as much as calming down.’

Gaitonde paused for effect. He scanned the pages in his hand, pretended to find what he was looking for and continued. ‘Just to take an example, the case of Ballibaran, auto-rickshaw driver . . . On March 17, in the afternoon, his vehicle was set on fire, then his hut . . . He rushed out to face the mob—which included policemen, allege witnesses—and with folded hands begged the crowd to spare his family since it was totally innocent of the savage attack the previous evening on the row of huts in the lane behind his . . . the mob hacked off his folded hands, which fell down; it then attacked with iron rods. The family, including the four children between the ages of six and fourteen, was beaten almost to death. When they were all in a coma, they were piled one atop another, doused with kerosene and set alight. The twenty- four persons named in the report danced around the bonfire, gaily spraying the flames with kerosene, chanting slogans to the tune of popular film songs.

‘Multiply the example of Ballibaran by seven thousand, spread them over fourteen days and nights, add mothers and children being waylaid and beheaded while trying to escape under cover of night, and decapitated heads being left at doorsteps, and friendly messages in human blood on the
walls—and you’ve a rough idea of what Bhayankar was like that fortnight.

‘The horror hasn’t stopped. It’s merely eased itself up, toned itself down . . . because today, after all these years, it is true that many of the criminals of 1980 have been brought to book and its victims compensated and rehabilitated, but it’s even more true—you all know as well as me—that in neither group have we picked the right men and women. Neither the real villains nor the actual relatives of the dead, the actually traumatized, wounded or dishoused. I reveal nothing new: 1980 wasn’t the first time that the officials of the Welfare State, out of incompetence or for a consideration, forged entire lists of beneficiaries, inhabitants and voters. A whole new Department has grown up—prospered—around the riots. One Section deals with criminal cases, another with fraudulent criminal cases, a third with Compensation to Riot Victims, a fourth with Proof of Original Rights of Residence, a fifth with Rehabilitation, a sixth with Verification of Lost Assets—and so on. As I said, the horror continues for, say, the illiterate grandmother who witnessed her sons and grandchildren being butchered to death and is now being asked to prove it.

‘But whatever has all this—the villainy and the blood—to do with Gajapati Aflatoon? Indeed. But whatever has Gajapati Aflatoon to do with Rajani Suroor? How can you blame me for feeling confused? Am I at the moment addressing the Gajapati Aflatoon Centenary Committee or the happening for Rajani Suroor? And Sukumaran Govardhan? Will he join the select members on stage before or after lunch? After all, they are some of his best friends. Has his official surrender been delayed only because he backed the wrong horse? We all remember that when questioned on the subject of the series of artificial forest fires engineered by Govardhan last month, the Honourable PM had remarked, ‘We need to implement our firefighting measures on a war footing.” Exactly what would that statement imply for the
dacoit’s political future?

‘However, much as though I’d like to pause for some clarifications, I won’t because I don’t—you’ll recall—wish to waste any more time.

‘My suggestions therefore to the Centenary Committee. One: forget Rajani Suroor. Learn from his case, but leave him alone. What happened to him makes clear for the millionth time that the Welfare State can never adequately protect its citizens and that, as often as not, whether it be the riots of 1980 or the sad event of the not-as-yet-martyred Suroor, one could argue that it is the State itself, in the shape of its police force or political leaders, that is the aggressor . . . Let Suroor be. He needs no memorials, not yet. Don’t forget that he was encouraged by his Prime Minister-friend to become a part- time civil servant and that they, amongst all the creatures on this planet, have the most finely-honed survival instinct.

‘My second suggestion: forget the Aflatoons, past and present. The past members of the family were impressive, but they’re dead. The present Aflatoons are pretty fossils. Concentrate instead on the needy, the bereaved and the dispossessed; become their voice if they’ll accept you. Cultural extravaganzas are meaningless and wasteful and in an officially- poor country, at times like these, when there’s more important work waiting elsewhere—they’re sinful too. I—’

The protests and expostulations from different parts of the auditorium that’d begun with Gaitonde’s mention, in the same breath, of Govardhan and the Aflatoons had now swelled into full-throated whoops, roars and howled exclamations into other microphones. Alarmed, Daya involuntarily cursed under her breath and Agastya watched, sleepily distant, as a handful of agitated members charged up to Gaitonde from the bottom left of the hall, waving their fists and yelling, not—it may be presumed—to ask him the time. Uh-oh, thought Agastya, meeting adjourned till lunch. Time to send that paper plane to Dr Bhatnagar and maybe take wing myself.

T
hey had been advised to wear suits after sundown, and sunglasses and their name tags at all times. ‘Had we been better-looking and less fidgety,’ the Maltese had commented in English to the few who claimed to speak it, ‘we could’ve made a living in a YSL shop window somewhere in the sixième.’ For a variety of reasons, none of his audience had laughed.

Every half a minute, as they tumbled, took a header, came a cropper and bit the dust, their name tags flashed like brooches in the hard clean light of the sun. Winded, stunned, flat on their backs in their bright, kindergarten-coloured gear that had cost them a quarter of their monthly stipend, they gazed up into a flawless, deep blue sky, felt grateful for their sunglasses and pined to be immediately transported elsewhere, to a less perfect, warmer, more human climate where one walked, or better still, was driven about in a car. For those of them who declined to stand again on their own two feet till the instructor drew up to prod them with his barks of encouragement, the skyline was spectacular. The chocolate- and-white undulations of the Hautes-Alpes, with their patches of dour, dry pines and their unbearably-white ski slopes, encircled them like gigantic cakes around a group of gaily- coloured ants. The spotless blue of the sky was completed by the immaculate white of the snow; together, with their newfangled shoes, outfits and daily routines, nature itself made them feel clumsy, a bit silly and out of place. Snow was neither their element nor, as it were, their scene.

Fifty-two of them had travelled together by train and autobus across six hundred kilometres to arrive, disoriented, cold and apprehensive, at Puy-St-Etienne on Monday morning. The more conscientious among them had worn their suits for the journey—partly, perhaps, to prevent them from becoming all crumpled up in their suitcases and grips, but more certainly because they wished to impress their Madam Director who headed the team that was shepherding them. She was a formidable personality, articulate, intelligent, not easily impressed. That was why their dear colleague from the African Democratic Republic of Begon had put on a tuxedo and a scarlet silk bowtie for the occasion. But not everybody sought Madame Europe Olympia Grosse-Reynard out. Some of them, in fact, couldn’t emit a sound in front of her. They became tongue-tied, as most would when face to face with an arsehole.

She reminded them, four to five times a week, not to forget that they all received fellowships—subsistence allowances, really—from the European Union. She implied, naturally, though she was too well-bred to explicitly say so, that they therefore, while in Europe, were expected to comport themselves like Europeans. Be punctual, for example. Nine-thirty meant nine twenty-nine and not nine thirty-five. Agastya, for whom, after eight years in the Welfare State, nine-thirty meant between ten-ten and ten-forty, had found the initial weeks under Madame Director quite tense-making. In a well-bred way, she’d made it clear to him that if he wasn’t punctual, she’d arrange to cancel his scholarship. Truly, it takes a bitch to shepherd black, thick-skinned sheep.

Agastya had almost skiied once before, as a teenager, in Gulmarg and hadn’t much liked it. Too alien, too cold. The little that he remembered from his previous experience of it had urged him to choose, on their first morning at Puy-St- Etienne, cross-country over Alpine. He’d thus earned the
joshing contempt of the Head Instructor who, in his other avatar, was a Professor of Sport in Paris. Whatever that title might secondarily imply, it primarily seemed to mean a man bronzed for all seasons, square-jawed, laser-eyed with the men and all-a-twinkle with the chicks.

‘You don’t feel adventurous enough, Monsieur, for some Alpine skiing?’

‘Yes, exactly that, you’re so correct, Monsieur, thank you,’ replied Agastya in his ghastly French. In the eight weeks that he’d spent in Europe, he couldn’t remember laughing or smiling even once, so heavily had his exile weighed him down. Because of the circumstances of his departure from his country, he missed Gandhan, Madna, Nirmalgaon—virtually each one of the eight small, hot, messy places that he’d been posted in. Phoning home and chatting with one’s near and dear ones was not at all the same thing. For one, phonecalls were expensive in Europe; for another, one had to pay. In none of the four centres of their training programme—Brussels, Luxembourg, Strasbourg, Paris—did they have access to an office phone. Naturally. He’d had to relearn that in the more efficient part of the planet, the State made the ordinary, unprivileged user pay for everything—the loos on the pavement, the photocopier in the library, the coffee during coffee break.

In Europe, he hadn’t laughed even once, not
really
laughed, not in the way that he used to back home, above all in Madna, most of all on the phone with Dhrubo, for minutes on end, silently, stomach heaving like an earthquake, crimson in the face, tears streaming down his cheeks, helpless in the grip of Nutsyanyaya. Those calls had almost always been occasioned by matters of official interest and had therefore—but naturally—been official. ‘Chidambaram, get me Mr Dastidar, Under Secretary for Demotic Drama, Aflatoon Bhavan.’ ‘Chidambaram, get me Deputy Chairman, Barren Lands and Disputed Territories Development Corporation.’
That sort of thing.

‘Is that you, fucker?’ Agastya would ask to establish identity because quite often, it wasn’t, but Dhrubo’s PAs didn’t seem to mind being mistaken for their boss. When at last he’d get him on the line, Agastya, without saying another word, would collapse, like a marathon man who reaches the finishing tape only a step, a breath away from his breaking point. Virtually on cue, just the idea, the image, of Agastya hysterically and soundlessly guffawing away at the other end would trigger Dhrubo off too. For a couple of minutes, any phone-tapper would’ve picked up nothing save their harsh, periodic intakes of breath and extended, rasp-like exhalations—almost like two members of an obscene-caller club practising their heavy breathing tricks on each other. Just a couple of middle-level civil servants unwinding, having a laugh at government expense. When one began to flag, the other would incite him to continue by reminding him, with a few key words, of some past instance of Nutsyanyaya that had cracked them up. Or one would have a new illustration to share.

Agastya to Dhrubo, for example: ‘I’ve just received a fax from Bhanwar Virbhim’s office. May I share it with you? . . .
Enclosed pleased to find Honourable Minister’s tour programme for constituency.
Of course, you know that the telegraphic style, the elimination of articles and grammatical rules in general, is an old economy measure.
On 7th instant, Minister desires evening of interfacing with cultural luminaries of Madna, followed by night halt at Circuit House.
I’ve ordered RDC in writing to round up the cultural luminaries of Madna. Never at a loss, quick as thought, he’s come up with A.C. Raichur. I think I’m going to fax back:
All arrangements tied up, including Shri Raichur to the bedpost of the double bed in the master bedroom of the Circuit House, in the raw, with an empty bottle of massage oil over his willy and a full one upright in his left palm, raring to go at Honourable Minister’s flaccid, trembling calves. Permission sought to add the
cost of the new, wonder-working liquid to the overall expenses of the Ministerial visit under the Given Head of Promotion of Non- Conventional Systems of Therapy in Less-Privileged Areas . . .’

In Europe, Agastya usually felt too blue to simply step into a phone booth and dial Dhrubo. Everything was efficient, formal, cold and different. One got through immediately, for one thing—quite disconcerting; it left one no time to figure out what one had to say. Then the delay between saying something and hearing a response was impersonalizing and off-putting; instead of participating in a dialogue, one became an auditor of banal phrases recorded in two different voices and played back alternately, off-key and off-cue. So he sent faxes and letters instead, randomly detailing the First-World face of Nutsyanyaya, the omnipresence of which didn’t surprise him in the least. Its evidence in fact provided ideal material for picture postcards filled out during a seminar.

We’re in the thick of a one-week gabfest on The Optimalization of Human Resources in the Public Sector, nine-to-five every day, of course. Each one of the other participants wears a suit and takes notes with the help of a footruler, a pencil and ballpoints of four different colours. I’ve spied on my neighbours and learnt that the blue’s for the actual stuff, the paragraphs of immortal prose, the green for date and major headings, black for minor headings, and almost everything to be underlined in red with footruler. The pencil is for afterthoughts in the margins. When I shut my eyes, which is often, I hear, beneath the lecturer’s voice, the continuous clatter of ballpoints of one colour being dropped on the table in favour of another. When I open them, I’m likely to see one of my colleagues in a suit, in the corner, over the wastepaper basket, with his back to us. It looks as though he’s taking a leak but no, he’s merely sharpening his pencil
—
lead pencil, I should clarify, lest you, harking back to the euphemisms
of school, suspect something kinkier. Our ages, I should add to give you perspective, vary from thirtyish to that of the E.T. from one of the Francophone Indian Ocean states, who let drop, early in our acquaintance, that he’s an ex-Minister. To redress the balance, the less said of what
they
think of
me,
the better . . .’

As a general principle, Personnel tries and packs off abroad, on one training programme or another, at least once in their careers, each member of the Steel Frame. Only a couple of the dozens of available courses are in French, the rest, naturally, being in English. The general principle is rather sound—a break from the grind for the poor sod, exposure, widening of horizons (Hull in the UK), a chance to see the world (Luxembourg, Cardiff, Adelaide), a fulfilment of a clause in some triennial Exchange Programme and the consequent achievement of an annual target for some Ministry, sometimes a smooth exit from the scene for some unsavoury types and on occasion, an award of a paid holiday for a faithful subordinate. Agastya fell into none of the above categories. His foreign training had been a pre-marriage incentive from Dr Kapila. He thus became one of the two civil servants that Personnel had unearthed that year whose cvs proclaimed them to be fluent in French. Their controlling governments recommended them for all courses in glowing terms and pushed with unexpected focus for their departures.

The Institute officials though were neither impressed with his French nor his reasons for being there. ‘In your original application form, Monsieur Sen, you’d written nothing in the column marked
Expectations from the Course.
By now, I’m sure that you’re clearer about what they are?’

Agastya mouthed some appropriate drivel in reply. He too was too well-bred, of course, to say the truth, namely, that his government had sent him off to Europe for two good
economic reasons: one, that it would spend nothing in conveying him there and two, that it wouldn’t fork out even a rupee on his upkeep during those twelve weeks. Ditto for his dear colleagues, the rest of the cream of the Third World. If he’d understood correctly, the Institute spent the equivalent of some five hundred thousand French francs per dear colleague per course. A jacket, a tie, punctuality and a willingness to play the game weren’t much to ask for in return.

There were times, though, when he found their demands—and the games that they were made to play—just a bit trying. The entire group, for instance, spent the month of January pretending to be the United Nations. The Institute paid a Professor in International Administration and Geopolitics from somewhere in Europe the equivalent of twenty thousand French francs to guide the dear colleagues through their paces. As a first step, he gave each of them three hundred photocopied pages of UN Resolutions to read. As a second, he asked them to pick a country out of his hat, become its permanent representative in the Institute’s auditorium for four weeks, nine-to-five, and prepare a twenty- page file on it within a fortnight.

He was bald, save for two silvery tufts that rose like Cupid’s wings above his ears, short, fat, with a splendid patrician nose. In his introductory remarks, he claimed that in the course of the past fifteen years, by means of that game that he’d invented, he’d revealed the fundamentals of the techniques of international negotiation and corridor diplomacy to a wide variety of target groups—students, probationary officers, middle-level civil servants and members of the diplomatic corps. All the dear colleagues felt that it was extremely nice of the Professor to have brought along with him about a hundred students from his university, a wonderfully-high percentage of whom were blonde or brunette, long-legged, tight-jeaned, rosy-cheeked, gum-
chewing, cigarette-smoking and exhilarating girls. They were needed to flesh out the UN. All at once, January began to look a damn sight better.

Out of the Professor’s hat, Agastya picked Russia. To create his file, he polished his black leather shoes and asked his dear colleague from Georgia what ‘Let’s git the hell outta here’ sounded like in Russian. During the first formal session, after one of the Professor’s male students, an enthusiastic jerk, Ireland, had been elected President of the Conference, Agastya suddenly took off his shoe, repeatedly banged the table before him with it, delivered his few words of Russian into the mike, added ‘Payṇcho’ as an afterthought prompted by nationalistic fervour, put on his shoe and, while the lot on the stage was reminding the honourable delegate from Russia that as per Article 27 of the Joint Declaration of the Four Sub-Commissions, the official language of the present UN Conference was French and French alone, left the auditorium, free as a bird for the day.

For two days, because on the third, he was up against Madame Europe Olympia in her posh office. Being intelligent, she first admired his take-off on Khrushchev and then firmly stated that it simply would not do. ‘You perhaps aren’t aware, Monsieur Sen, that over the years, your country’s record, its performance, at the Institute has been abysmal. This year, for example, you began with two of you here, but one returned home within a fortnight—even though your government had specifically signed an assurance confirming that both of you would be available for the full twelve weeks. Well. Now there rests just you. Truly, the less said about you, the better, even though I’ve much to say on that score. Your attitude is rather similar to that of your predecessors. There’s nothing that a course in Europe can teach us. We’re untrainable, in short.’